Angel's Wings -or- A Doll in the Hand
by Musashi
Summary: One word describes this: Bizarre. Why should all my strange fics be limited to Pokémon?


Angel's Wings  
or  
A Doll in the Hand  
  
A/N: Have you seen that picture, the one of Sephiroth holding a perfectly proportioned, doll-sized Cloud? Well, I was thinking about that picture when the idea for this story popped into my  
head. It's... odd.  
  
  
~1~  
  
"Tinker, it's late. What are you still doing up?"  
  
"I'm.. Working."  
  
"On what!? What could possibly be so important that you work on it at three in the morning!?"  
  
He didn't bother to reply, didn't bother to look back through the workshop door to see his  
malevolent sister glaring at him. He knew what she would look like, anyways. Hands on her  
hips, short blue hair falling around her face. Red eyes blazing.   
  
"Tinker!!"  
  
"Go to bed, Rachel. I won't be up much later."  
  
"...If you're still up when I get up to make breakfast, you won't eat, and I won't let you go back  
to sleep until night time again."  
  
"Rachel, go."  
  
The door closed, blocking the hall light, and the workshop's interior lights came back on.   
Photocells were such marvelous inventions... Tinker's own, in fact.  
  
Clear, colorless eyes looked down at the doll in his hand. It was the perfect shape, height,  
proportion, of a man. Clothes would be made for him later, so Tinker focused on putting every  
tiny detail of physique into the form.   
  
The doll was muscular, strong. Trim; an athlete, or a fighter. A fighter. A swordsman, Tinker  
decided. He'd make the sword later. The face was a picture of perfection. Features perfectly  
formed; the kind of face any woman would drool over. And many men as well. The hair was  
long, and gave the illusion of flowing. Tinker knew that if he made the hair so that it could  
actually move, it would never be able to hold its beauty. So it was carved of the same plasticene  
as the rest of the body.  
  
Tinker ran a thumb lightly across the torso. His masterpiece; his greatest work. The epitome of  
his god-like ability of creating life from inanimation.  
  
A god-like face, body. God. No, an angel... of death. Angel.. Sephiros.  
  
"Sephiroth," Tinker said aloud. He tilted the doll slightly, and the tiny, brilliant aquamarines  
carved skillfully into eyeballs and implanted in the eye sockets glinted at him. For one tense  
split second, Tinker thought he saw a hint of life within those cold, pale features. A twitch of the  
thin-lipped mouth into a smirk.  
  
"Sleep," Tinker murmered, setting the doll into a stand. "I must sleep." He stood and turned,  
twisting the knob for the lights so as to dim them almost to blackness. And he stepped into the  
hallway, closing the door tightly.  
  
~2~  
  
"Sephiroth."  
  
~It's so cold... yet so warm...  
  
"Sleep."  
  
~No... I have slept so long... now it is time to...  
  
~WAKE UP!  
  
The shapes those eyes saw were dimly illuminated and unfamiliar. A cold metal band held him  
in place, so that he was unable to escape.  
  
~Angel. Sephiros. I am.. Sephiros. I am Sephiroth.  
  
His hands curled around the band of metal around his waist. Warmth flowed through limbs;  
warmth, and life. And strength.  
  
He pulled, and the band gave way. He fell the short distance to the wooden floor, landing upon  
his hands and knees, collapsing as they refused yet to support him.  
  
~Strong yet weak... I cannot stand. I can fly...  
  
He pushed himself up to his knees, the jumbled thoughts spiraling in his mind, causing pain. His  
head, it ached so much. It was so dark.  
  
~There should be light... Where is the light? Mother? Father?  
  
Slowly, painstakingly, he stood. Stretched unused muscles. Blood pumping insistently through  
his body, warming him futher.   
  
~I am alone. I am all. All are me.  
  
He walked... and found himself at the edge of a cliff. And jumped, falling, falling so far. But all  
must end, and he collided with another ground. The impact, hard though it was, did not so much  
as make him lose his balance or his breath. He walked.  
  
~What is this place? This world is mine. Do not stop me!  
  
Images raced through his mind as me walked. Images of himself through another's eyes. Images  
of his reflection. Images of others. A woman, a man. Doctors? Scientists? Something. The  
words, the names, refused to stay still long enough for him to grasp them. More images, faster  
and faster...  
  
~I must get out.  
  
They flew faster, and so did he, running across the ground, darting around obstacles. More  
strength, ever more and more coming to him, filling him, flooding him...   
  
~I can fly!  
  
And he did. His feet left the ground, and he suddenly felt the coolness of open air, surrounding  
him, cushioning him, propelling him further and further on into the heights. The new muscles  
beat without a thought, the wings, angel's wings, lashing at the air, living with the air, carrying  
him up and up and through and through, forward, go!  
  
~3~  
  
Freedom without knowledge comes with a heavy price. The bird which did wing its way through  
the skies and the heavens fell to the ground, bruised and broken, one wing forevermore unusable.  
  
A life forevermore gone.  
  
~4~  
  
Tinker returned the next morning to his workshop, the sound and smell of cooking bacon in the  
kitchen. The masterpiece, Sephiroth, was gone. The window was open.  
  
A deep sorrow gripped the old inventor and toymaker. The tinkerer. He had poured everything  
he had into the creation of that piece of perfection, and it had been stolen before achieving the  
life he had meant for it.  
  
There was no freedom for his creation, yet there was freedom for the creator, as the empty shell  
fell unheeded to the floor, a spirit flew free...  
  
Evermore. 


End file.
